


Stupid Ox

by Elevensins



Series: Ishgard Stories [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dragoon Bros, Gen, How the dynamic duo met, Original Player Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elevensins/pseuds/Elevensins
Summary: Breandan always did have a smart mouth on him.
Series: Ishgard Stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017322





	Stupid Ox

“Sit down, Ducaille.”

Silvestre heard the words snarled. Typical of Nouantsel Durendaire, his voice commanded attention. Respect, not quite so much. Nouant earned his sobriquet Snowfury for a reason, and his anger was as often directed at other dragoons as it was their mortal enemies. 

He ducked under the top flap of the tent, tucking his helm under his arm as he entered. Nouant, barely an inch above Breandan, glared as if staring down from several feet. To the other dragoon’s credit, he stood his ground despite this. Silvestre wondered what had caused this sudden dust-up. It could have been anything when these two were in the same vicinity. Nouant had a nasty and demanding temperament, and Breandan was very good at pushing buttons.

Nouant practically spit in Breandan’s face, “Do. Not. Test. Me.” Dark eyes had narrowed near to slits and his grip on the shaft of his lance was white-knuckled. 

Someone tapped on Silvestre’s arm, drawing his attention away from the conflict. Ser Parsonouoix gestured for him to step away, join his table. With a nod he acknowledged the man, but didn’t move from where he stood. Something about this situation, the tension behind it, did not sit well with him. Breandan certainly did exacerbate his situations sometimes, but just as often he’d been targeted unfairly in the first place.

“I didn’t do it. You are not blaming it on me, you _swiving whoreson_.”

The entire tent went dead silent, Nouant’s face apoplectic. The spear moved in his hand, fully intending for it to strike Breandan. Eyes averted abruptly. Everyone waited to hear it, the sudden sound of lance piercing skin and bone, probably followed by Breandan’s cry. 

Only silence followed. When everyone dared to look up, Silvestre stood between the two of them now, a hand firmly holding Nouant’s lance in place to prevent him from doing anything with it.

“Let go you stupid, swiving Ox,” Nouant said, his rage barely contained. 

Yet Silvestre remained there, staring down at him calmly. Breandan attempted to get around him, saying something about how he wasn’t some damsel in distress and he could handle himself. _You stupid ox_. Silvestre held an arm out, easily holding him back, too.

“Stupid ox wants you there,” he said first to Nouant, pointing to a table at the far side of the tent. To Breandan he pointed to the opposite corner, “And you there.”

Breandan seemed far more amenable to this arrangement, turning to stalk in the indicated direction. Nouant still smarted from the insult and again tried to wrench his lance free from Silvestre’s grasp with the intent to rush after the fleeing figure. But there was no removing it from Silvestre’s grip, try as he might.

Realizing this wasn’t going to end until someone removed the lance, Silvestre wrenched it from Nouant’s hand completely, snapping off the head of it over a knee as if he were breaking a brittle twig. He gave both pieces back to the Snowfury. "Sit down, Nouantsel. Our enemy is in the skies, not in here.“ 

Instead, Nouant stalked out of the tent, throwing down the broken pieces of his lance into the snow. Relieved sighs all around as the tension lifted. The sound of silverware and a low din of conversation returned. And quite a few of them glanced in Silvestre’s direction with a touch of wonderment, awe, or a little fear. Or some combination thereof. 

Silvestre wasn’t sure what to think about that, he’d been perfectly fine with just being stupid and an ox. At least then no one talked to him, or got frustrated when he couldn’t think fast enough in their language to carry on a conversation. They expected him to be silent and strong and kill dragons when the time came and nothing else. 

Now they all saw him in another light. He sighed, too late to take any of it back. Instead he got a helping of whatever concoction the temple knife had put together and headed over to sit across from Breandan.

The smaller dragoon tried to ignore him, gold eyes flickering in his direction and away again as he realized Silvestre was heading right for his table. He took on his usual posture, sullen stare, arms folded over his chest, stand offish and snappish. Silvestre said nothing, as usual, and simply sat down to eat. 

Breandan could have just gotten up and walked off, changed to another table, but he didn’t. He watched Silvestre eat half his bowl before saying a word.

"You didn’t have to do that. I wish you hadn’t. I get enough shite in this place. I don’t need people thinking I’m hiding behind your skirts.”

“I don’t wear skirt,” Silvestre replied before another mouthful of stew. 

Breandan’s brows furrowed. “You mean you don’t wear skirts.” 

The larger man shrugged, “Skirts. I don’t wear them. Nothing wrong with them.”

“What language do you speak anyway? You aren’t stupid, I’ve seen you think things through. But Fury’s sake, you can’t even talk right.”

Silvestre was glad for the mouthful of food to chew on. It gave him a moment to think how to reply. "I don’t speak Ishgard. Very well.“

"Ishgardian,” Breandan corrected.

“Ishgardian,” Silvestre repeated, his mouth sounding out the syllables and finding them an ill fit.

The smaller dragoon sat back in his chair, expression astonished. "I have never known any noble born son of any house not knowing how to speak Ishgardian.“

"Big story,” Silvestre said.

“Long story. You mean– that’s it. If you’re going to stand in for me any time one of these swiving arseholes decides to make me their daily target, you at least have to know how to talk to them… insult them properly.”

Silvestre only understood part of that, but he nodded anyway. "When do we do it?“

"We will do _this_ starting tonight. Swive’s sake, man. Wish I knew this earlier.”


End file.
